


Memento Mori

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Christianity, Community: worshipdarklord, Dark, Dehydration, Enemies, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Nuclear War, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a week for Potter to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by stgulik.

"By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work." —Genesis 2:2

On the morning of the first day, he realizes that he is alive.

He opens his eyes as the red sun rises over the horizon, and he thinks _yes_. His is the only heart that beats, here in the whole entire world, and he can't help but feel pride at that. Like a prize he's won during his Hogwarts days; something to distinguish him; something to show off.

A flick of his wand and the air vibrates around him like a hummingbird's wings, gently lifting him up, until he surveys the ground below him and feels like a god. He fancies he can see the world before him, stretching for miles on out, lying in broken city streets.

* * *

At noon of the first day, he sees Harry Potter.

The boy is trembling but defiant, still very much alive, and silent. He fingers his wand and considers killing him, before deciding not to be so merciful. It would be far too easy. It would be better to let the boy suffer. He manages to convince himself of that fact.

Potter is human, and dying. And soon, he will be dead.

* * *

On the second day, they have begun to rot.

The sun glares down upon the earth, and with it comes the scent of decay, rising from the dead bodies amongst them. If he looks closely, he can see the maggots and the flies crawling amongst the ruins of the people near them. Muggle and magical alike. House-elves and humans. All of them stopped bleeding long ago. Their blood has clotted and dried.

Potter is not silent anymore. He cries and whimpers quietly, and he mostly tries to pretend he isn't there. He doesn't mind.

* * *

On the third day, Potter speaks.

"Water," he whispers." Please. Water. I'm so …."

 _Aguamenti_ , he thinks, and a jet of water shoots out of his wand, hitting Potter in the mouth. His eyes widen in surprise, but he frantically gulps it down.

Why?

He doesn't answer. To prolong Potter's death? It would be ridiculous—prosaic—for the Dark Lord's foe to succumb of dehydration.

* * *

The fourth day is much like the one before it. Water, Potter begs, parched lips open, withered fingers scrabbling at the blood-stained soil. His fingernails, he notes with disgust, are filthy. And again, he sees Potter lap up the stream of water gushing from his wand, his bloated tongue swiping at the edges of cracked metal grates. Blood trickles down from the corner of his mouth.

* * *

The fifth day dawns, and it is beautiful, with satiny clouds dotted amongst a pale pink sky, almost fleshy. The night is retreating, the sun rising upon the dark earth below. He fancies he can see the heavens opening, though of course he doesn't believe in heaven.

Potter's head gently nudges his arm, his mouth a pinky-red sucker, groping at his wand. His tongue darts out and licks for any remaining drops lying like dew against the wood.

Potter is surprised, he can see, when he stirs. "I—" he whispers, his mouth gaping open.

He turns away.

* * *

Potter has started to cry again. It is the sixth day, and he should rightly be dead. Yet he is not.

"I'm hungry," Potter whines. He ignores him. It's becoming surprisingly easy to do.

Potter mumbles something against the dirt, his forehead brushing the robes of the—man?—in front of him. He is too tired to do much, too tired to sit up or at least raise his head.

He lets his hand trail down, the tip of his finger stroking the curve of Potter's lip. Potter inhales in surprise; he can feel it, a short intake of breath against the pad of his finger. His breath is warm.  
His hand traces across Potter's chin, down to his neck, until he can feel warm fabric and buttons. Potter's shirt. Potter has still not said anything.

He feels for the waistband of Potter's trousers. They've loosened considerably, and it's simple enough for him to reach underneath and stroke Potter's limp cock.

It takes a long time for Potter to reach climax. Understandable, really. But he pulls at it, twists, swipes his thumb round the head. The tips of his fingers reach back, play against the loose sack of Potter's bollocks. He tugs on them, gently.

He moves his fingers back around, until the shaft of Potter's cock is in his hand. He lets his hand rub against it, lightly tracing the vein on the underside. The flesh is hot in his hand. Potter's face is red and clenched, like he isn't letting himself say no.

Eventually, he comes, silently, with a grimace.

Potter whimpers quietly when he removes his hand from the trousers. He wipes it on the ground. It leaves behind a wet smear. Soon, that, too, will fade.

* * *

The sun of the sixth day sets. It is night again. The air chills as the moon rises in the sky, a silvery crescent far, far away. He can sense Potter shivering—a faint rattling sound, the barest shadow of movement. He should be asleep.

He wonders, for a few moments, what Potter is thinking. Why Potter let him touch him, bring him pleasure. He could have said no. Potter knows this, too.

He did not expect Potter to die like this, cold and whimpering on the ground.

Perhaps he did not expect Potter to die at all.

* * *

Potter dies sometime during the night. When, he is not sure.

He doesn't know about it till morning, when he turns, only to see Potter, feel his body cooling in the thin Scottish air.

He is not quite sure how to feel.

It would be odd not to feel something; after all, his sworn enemy had just died. And not by his hand, either. By Muggle hands that launched the bombs. Ironic, that.

And now ….

"And now I shall live forever."

Those are the first words he has spoken in a week.

After all, there is no one else to stop him.


End file.
